Darlin', everything's on fire
by hoidn
Summary: Turns out that the ass-end of nowhere, Wyoming, is exactly where you want to be come the zombie apocalypse.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** please note that this fic contains graphic depictions of violence.

.

. . .

Turns out that the ass-end of nowhere, Wyoming, is exactly where you want to be come the zombie apocalypse.

Vic's thinking about that as she stands in the bed of her truck, under the bright sun of late spring, covering Cady who's twenty feet down the road. There's been a lot of time lately to ponder the series of choices that brought her here, to Durant. Laid out like a map in her mind, she traces the paths not taken from each of those crossroads to see where they lead. If she'd moved to Australia with Sean. If they'd taken the transfer to Texas instead of Wyoming. If she'd turned a blind eye to Bobby's corruption. If she'd never been twenty-four and stupid enough to fuck Ed Gorski in the first place.

All those lives she isn't living stretch out to the horizon like the flat stretch of highway under her tires, as if the future itself is a sphere. In most if not all of them, she's probably already dead. Or close enough to it as to make no difference, like half the population and counting. Like her family back in Philly. Like almost everyone she ever knew.

Yet here Vic is on this pretty day in Absaroka County, with a light breeze fluttering the ends of her hair and some fluffy white clouds skidding above her across a sky of hopeful blue. Maybe none of it would mean much to the poor son of a bitch about to get shot in the head, she reflects philosophically, but it's not like he'll have time to think about it one way or the other.

. . .

* * *

_A statement released today by the CDC confirms that a recent outbreak of the homopathogenic fungus_ P. coccophagus _has been contained, though it warns that isolated cases may continue to arise. The federal government has been urged to raise public awareness of the deadly infection, which attacks the frontal lobe of the brain as well as nerves in the spinal cord. Inhalation or ingestion of spores is the primary route of transmission, with mucous membrane contact a simultaneous or secondary route. The average incubation period of_ P. coccophagus _is 4-6 days, although rare cases of asymptomatic infection lasting up to 14 days have been recorded. Initial symptoms may include mild irritability and headache, combined with decreases in concentration and impulse control. Anyone who believes they have been exposed to_ P. coccophagus _should report to a medical facility for testing as a matter of urgency. The use of personal protective equipment, particularly masks, in public spaces is encouraged until the pathogen is completely eradicated._

* * *

. . .

Depending on who you asked, it was terrorists, the Chinese, the Russians, Muslims, Jews, the government, aliens, or the liberal elite who were to blame. Then there were all the religious nutjobs taking perverse delight in watching the Lord's divine retribution rain down upon the sinners. Of course, their delight only lasted until the clouds of that same retribution started to rain on them as well.

Headlines everywhere screamed _Zombies!_ no matter how many statements the CDC and the White House put out about parasitic fungal infections and host organism syndrome. It had become almost, but not quite, a joke, Vic thought. They were somewhere in the middle of the third week of the outbreak — before anyone official had used the word _pandemic_ — and with the nervous laughter of a bad liar, the nation continued to pretend that everything was fine.

In a way it was disappointing to discover that all those disaster movies with their big explosions, inspiring heroism, and sweeping soundtracks had been wrong. Everything didn't fall apart at once. People mostly kept on living their lives. TV and radio stations still broadcasted; the internet buzzed with truth and fiction; trash still got collected. There was still electricity and running water and credit card bills and mortgage payments and dentist appointments. Crime still kept her and Ferg and Walt in plenty of business.

The threads that bound society together only frayed a little at a time. The news reports got bleaker, the infection kept on spreading, and the boogeyman slithered out from under the bed to show how very real he was. Everyone sat and waited for the hero of the story to be revealed, for the uplifting third act to begin. No one seemed to realize they were working from an old copy of the script.

This time the director was taking the story in a wholly new direction. Vic was pretty sure there'd be no orchestral score written for what lay ahead.

. . .

* * *

_France has recalled its ambassador to the United States and closed its embassy in New York, citing safety concerns for its citizens. French president François Hollande today announced that repatriation efforts for French nationals living in North America will be expedited due to the escalating health crisis._

* * *

. . .

Cady is a good shot, almost as good as Vic herself, but for some reason she's just standing there, shotgun hanging uselessly from one hand.

"What's the problem?" Vic calls.

It's the only infected they've seen on patrol this morning, and it's pretty slow. The farther gone they are, the more dangerous; you never know when they're going to pop. This guy is shambling drunkenly along the road, listing slightly to one side with what looks like some of his guts slipping out of a slice in his belly.

Vic is glad she's upwind. "Shoot the fucker!" she yells at Cady, who's still standing there like a statue.

They all know better than to play chicken with a zombie. The zombie always wins.

But it keeps coming and Cady keeps not shooting, until finally it's almost inside the dispersal radius and Vic has no choice. She raises her own rifle and takes it out with a single shot to its head. The bullet strikes dead center, crumpling the skull on its way through and leaping out the back with a spray of brain matter and blood like the tail of a comet. A solid sort of squelch is the only sound the body makes when it drops.

Practically vibrating with anger, she jumps from the truck and stalks down the road, grabbing Cady's arm and swinging her around. "What the fuck is wrong with you? If that thing had gotten any closer I would've had to shoot through you!"

"I couldn't do it," Cady says softly, pale-faced and wide-eyed. "I went to high school with him. His name is Bradley. He has two little kids. I couldn't kill him."

Vic stares at her with a head full of static. After months of nothing but horror and fear, nothing but death and survival, this is the moment that breaks her.

"He was already dead!" she hears herself shouting. "He wasn't a person anymore. None of them are people anymore. They're fucking sacks of meat walking around with time bombs inside them. Is that worth dying for? Is that worth your life? 'Cause I sure as fuck don't think it's worth mine."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Sorry?" Her voice rises to a scream, scraping like razors in her throat. "Is that what I'm supposed to say to your dad when I tell him you got yourself infected? That I had to shoot you in the fucking head? 'I couldn't keep your daughter alive, Walt, but hey, I'm really sorry!' You think that's gonna make him feel any better about losing you? Jesus, Cady, you're all he's got left!"

Cady opens her mouth but Vic's going downhill with her brake lines cut and no way to stop until she hits bottom.

"How am I supposed to face him if something happens to you? It would _destroy_ him! I might as well just get in the truck and keep on driving because there's no fucking way I can do that. Don't you understand I can't do that to him? I can't," she repeats helplessly.

In silence, Cady takes the rifle and sets it down with her shotgun, then puts her arms around Vic. They stand there in the quiet emptiness of the road for a long time, with Vic crying so hard she can barely breathe. Tears and snot drip down her face and she shakes until her bones feel like they might shatter. All the while she stares, unblinking, at the still form of Bradley, who used to be a man with two kids.

The way the blood seeps out around his head and shines against the asphalt is really almost beautiful.

. . .

* * *

_Following last week's shock announcement by the French government, three more countries have declared their intent to close embassies and consulates located on U.S. soil._

* * *

. . .

Vic answered her phone without bothering to look at the display. "Moretti."

There was a long enough pause that she started to pull the phone away from her ear before a voice said, "Hey."

Her stomach knotted up in an instant. "Sean. Hi."

"Hi."

For a few seconds she was stunned speechless, trying to remember how polite conversations were supposed to go. "How are you? How's Australia?" she asked, wincing at the high, false pitch of her voice.

Sean made a sound that might have been a breath of laughter or a sigh. "I'm okay. I, um... How are you?"

"Uh, I'm okay. Yeah." Why the hell was she so nervous? Vic ordered herself to pull it together. "I guess you've heard about what's going on over here."

"Yeah. I've been talking to my parents almost every day."

God, she felt terrible. She hadn't thought about his family at all since the divorce. "Are they all right?"

"They're worried but they're fine so far."

"What about your sister?"

"She's okay too, and the kids. They're staying with Mom and Dad for now."

"That's good."

"Yeah. How's your family?"

"You know the Morettis. Nothing can keep us down."

"Right." Sean cleared his throat. "Listen, I'm calling because... I'm sorry about the way we left things. The way I left things. I just wanted you to know that, in case... Well, I just wanted you to know."

_Wouldn't want your ex-wife zombified still thinking you were a shithead,_ Vic thought snidely and immediately felt guilty. It wasn't as though she'd behaved like a paragon of virtue, either. At least he was making an effort.

"I'm sorry, too," she told him. "I really am."

Silence fell between them then but it wasn't awkward or heavy. It felt as though they'd both let go of some unspoken weight. For the first time in too long she felt close to him again, despite the distance.

"I should let you get back to work," Sean said eventually. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too."

She waited for something more but heard only the ghost of a sound, as if he'd started to speak and cut himself off. She pressed the phone harder to her ear, sharply aware that this might be the last conversation they ever had. "Sean?"

"I love you, Victoria."

It stole her breath, the way he said it. It made her wish so many useless things. That she could have loved him the way he loved her. That she could have spared him the pain she'd never meant to cause. But the words stayed stuck in her throat. What good could they do now, for either of them?

"I love you too," she told him instead, and meant it.

After a long moment, he said, very gently, "Goodbye, Victoria."

She squeezed her eyes shut tight and whispered, "Bye, Sean."

Then he was gone.

. . .

* * *

_More riots have broken out in major cities overnight. Crowds protesting the refusal of some groups to burn infected bodies on religious grounds turned violent when Congress returned a vote of No to the passage of the Temporary Burial Suspension Bill. Opponents of the Bill, which would have required all human remains to be cremated, objected on the grounds that it violated the First Amendment and was therefore unconstitutional. Proponents argue that it meets the requirements of the strict scrutiny standard and the compelling interest requirement of the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. A CDC spokesperson has decried the result of the vote, calling it a short-sighted decision that poses a devastating risk to the safety of every man, woman, and child in the country. The CDC, along with the AMA and various other medical bodies, continues to urge Americans to sign preemptive burial waivers in case of infection. As the spores of_ P. coccophagus _remain viable for dispersal up to 48 hours after a host's death, immediate cremation is so far the only reliable method of halting the spread of infection._

* * *

. . .

She's got third watch tonight. After driving them back to the cabin, Cady had offered to take the shift herself, but Vic refused. It gives her an excuse to go to bed early and it's her third night on, which means she has tomorrow off. She doesn't think she'll actually be able to sleep, so she's surprised to be woken by the quiet beep of her alarm at 2 a.m.

Lucian is at the kitchen table when she wanders over to the coffee pot, yawning.

"Anything?" she asks him.

He doesn't look up from the magazine he's reading. "Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse."

"You could just say 'no'."

"What man having a late night rendezvous with a beautiful woman ever says 'no'?"

Vic snorts into her mug but doesn't reply. After all these weeks of living in close quarters, she's gotten used to Lucian's sense of humor. In spite of his penchant for blatantly ogling her tits, she actually likes him. And she doesn't mind the ogling all that much, either, since it's the only action she gets these days.

The air outside is pleasantly cool when she steps onto the porch. As the weather gets warmer the cabin feels increasingly stifling once they put the blackout shutters up at night. Blocking the airflow is a necessary evil to allow them to turn on the lights between sunset and sunrise. Though they're in the middle of nowhere, a single lit window shines a long way in the dark, and zombies never seem to sleep.

She stands still for a minute or two, letting her eyes adjust. Now that they've finished rigging their simple tripwire alarm system, night watches rarely involve anything more strenuous than the effort of staying awake. Vic likes to be outside for as much of her shift as she can manage. Solitude is hard to come by when they do almost everything in pairs. It's safer, but sometimes she feels like she's living in Noah's fucking ark.

Spending time outside on her own makes the rest of it bearable, and the darkness performs a kind of magic. It erases the differences between what is and what used to be; it rinses the stains of infection from the world. Night becomes a quantum state, holding millions of Schrödinger's cats inside it. As long as no one opens that box the dead are also alive. Vic's never been much for make-believe, but for now she suspends her disbelief gladly.

The sky is clear tonight. The moon is almost full and stars are scattered in every direction like spilled glitter. An insect symphony fills the air around the cabin, accompanied by the wind rustling through the tops of the trees. Walt's horse makes two short snorting sounds and then falls silent. She wonders fleetingly if horses dream. One of these days Cady's going to teach her how to ride but Vic isn't in any hurry.

The night feels huge around her and yet close against her skin, like she's floating in a black, tranquil sea. She falls upwards into the stars as though she's weightless and for a little while she pretends that everything's the same.

Then the wind shifts and carries the scent of smoke in her direction like a haunting.

Fires are always burning somewhere and their smell is never completely gone. She thinks of the pyre they'd had to build in the parking lot of the hospital. There were so many bodies they'd kept it burning for three days straight. So many familiar faces had been thrown into the flames. Vic can see them in her mind, the Absaroka dead: Doctor Weston and Doctor Bloomfield, Donny from the path lab who'd had a crush on her, the nurses whose names she'd never bothered to remember.

All ashes now.

There's no chance for grieving or even goodbyes anymore. There's just the burning dead and the living left trying to survive them.

. . .

* * *

_Emirates Airlines becomes the fifth international airline to suspend its North American services. In a press release today, EA president Timothy Clark expressed regret at being forced to take the action but said that his primary concern must be ensuring the safety of the company's employees. Emirates Airlines has pledged full fare refunds for all affected flights._

* * *

. . .

Situations at the Red Pony in the early afternoon were unusual. That time of day was the domain of career drinkers like Bob Barnes who tended not to be a rowdy bunch; they preferred to do the serious work of getting shit-faced in peace.

Today it had spilled into the carpark by the time she and Walt arrived.

"I see ten, maybe twelve people," Vic said, getting out of the Bronco. Most of them were milling around a smaller knot of struggling bodies. Unlike every other brawl or bar fight she'd ever witnessed, this one was oddly quiet.

"Sheriff's department!" Walt yelled and the knot in the middle seemed to explode.

Onlookers pulled back into the spaces between cars, while four bodies were propelled from the center like a scene from an action movie. All of them showed visible signs of serious damage, and rising from among them stood a figure covered in blood, brandishing what looked like a broken-off chair leg.

Vic gaped. "What the fuck is this guy on?"

Walt shook his head. "Drop your weapon," he called, "and put your hands in the air."

The guy's head swiveled towards them and his face was eerily expressionless. Vic unsnapped her holster and drew her gun before he'd taken two steps, a chill coiling down her spine. Something was very wrong here.

"Drop your weapon," Walt said again, his own gun unholstered.

The guy kept coming.

As Walt went right, Vic went left to check on the closest victim. With a glance she registered the unnatural angle of his neck and the vacant, staring eyes. Poor bastard, she thought. What a crappy way to go.

She heard a shot, looked up, and saw the assailant down with a bullet center mass. Shocked, she turned to Walt, ready to demand the reason he'd pulled the trigger unprovoked, but the panic on his face stopped her cold.

"Vic, get back! Everyone get back!"

In two strides he was close enough to grab her arm and yank her back towards the Bronco. She'd never seen his face so pale.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded.

Walt flung open the door and reached for the radio mic. "Look at his eyes, Vic. He's infected."

His eyes. With all the blood that already covered his face, it was nearly impossible to tell, but... Yes, she saw it now. Bleeding from the eyes. The only warning before they popped.

"Holy shit," she breathed, as Walt snapped orders at Ruby to contact the CDC, Highway Patrol, and anyone else she could think of. "We've got to get these people away from here."

But they were out of time.

For a fraction of a second the front of the man's skull actually seemed to bulge. Then something punched through it from the inside as though the bones had no more resistance than a paper bag. Two long, thin tendrils waved from the misshapen ruin of his head, their tips nodding lazily with the weight of the berry-like bodies that carried their spores.

A scream lodged itself in Vic's throat.

Turning to Walt, she saw the same terrible knowledge and her own horror reflected in his eyes.

They were all on notice. Zombies had arrived in Absaroka.

.

[TBC]


	2. Chapter 2

. . .

* * *

_Mexican president Enrique Nieto has declared the closure of his country's border with the United States. After days of tense negotiations between Mexico and the White House, a statement was issued today announcing that from midnight tonight any attempts to cross into Mexico from the United States will be met with lethal force. The White House is expected to issue a response shortly._

* * *

. . .

Dim light shines briefly from inside the cabin when the door opens and Walt steps out onto the porch.

Vic's two hours into her watch and her eyes are accustomed to the darkness, but she knows that right now he's all but blind. "What are you doing up?" she asks from her perch on top of the railing.

"Lucian."

"Ah."

The old man usually takes a couple of trips to the bathroom every night and invariably wakes at least one of them.

"Didn't seem worth trying to get back to sleep now," Walt adds.

Vic hums an acknowledgement and keeps her eyes fixed on the drifts of cloud that have begun to float over the moon.

"Anything interesting happening tonight?"

"Not unless you find your horse's farts interesting."

Walt makes a sound like he's swallowing a laugh and takes a few steps closer to her, leaning up against the post by her feet. She tries to smother her awareness of his presence and sink back into the peace of the night, but it's useless. Her body reacts to him as though he's an electrical charge on her skin. The subtle thrum inside her is impossible to ignore.

He clears his throat softly. "Uh, Cady told me what happened out on patrol."

_Of course she did,_ Vic thinks with resignation, but says nothing. This is a conversation she doesn't want to have.

"Thank you," he says, obviously not getting the message.

She doesn't know why, but his gratitude irks her. "That's why we go out in pairs, right? To watch each other's backs?"

Walt sighs and pushes away from the post. For a moment she's seized by equal parts relief and disappointment that he's leaving — and that irks her even more — but he only crosses to sit on the bench to her right. In order to see him now she'd have to turn her head and that feels like an admission, though of what she's not sure, so she forces herself to keep still.

The fabric of his clothes rustles as he settles himself. In the stillness of the pre-dawn hours, Vic can even hear the light brush of skin against skin as he rubs his hands together slowly. She pictures him in what she thinks of as his earnest pose: legs spread, upper body leaning into the space between them, elbows on his thighs, and hands clasped. Sitting this way, he radiates sincerity. People want to trust him with their truths; they want to believe in his warmth and understanding.

The worst of it is that she's sure Walt doesn't intend it as manipulation. Not that he's above that kind of tactic, but this isn't part of his conscious arsenal. If it was deliberate, she could resist the lure he casts, but it's genuine and so she's helpless. Like a black hole, he swallows other people's secrets and truths; he absorbs without giving in return.

Vic's fed up with that kind of one-sided exchange.

"You're right," he says after so long she has to do a quick mental rewind to recall what it is she's right about this time. "We watch each other's backs because we know how precarious every minute of survival is. We know that making it through today is no guarantee we'll make it through tomorrow. Any one of us could become infected no matter how vigilant we are. That's just a fact. If the worst did happen, it wouldn't be anybody's fault, Vic. If today it had been Cady, it wouldn't have been your fault. And I would never blame you for it."

His certainty sounds compelling, but Vic knows better than to believe him. She's been a cop for too long not to understand that absolutes seem easy until you have to live by them. The grieving always want someone to blame and they're not choosy. Walt is no different; his vendetta against Nighthorse is proof of that. Yet here he is, with his conveniently short memory, still playing the role of wise, reasonable sheriff, doling out advice and promises like he has a fucking clue. Has he forgotten that she's seen his office wrecked, his pissy little tantrums, his sulking? That she's borne witness to his tunnel vision, his obsession, and his complete and utter indifference to anyone's ideas but his own?

It's insulting.

She breathes slowly through the steep wave of her anger until it recedes. Ultimately, whether or not _he'd_ blame her is beside the point. If something happened to any of them on her watch, Vic would blame herself. And she'd carry that weight until somebody else's bullet took it away from her, along with everything else.

There are too many burdens already crowded onto her shoulders; another one would drive her into the ground.

"I'm thinking about leaving," she says without inflection.

Walt lets out a short, sharp breath and she feels a bitter twist of satisfaction at cracking his composure.

"Where would you go?"

"I don't know."

All she knows is that she wants to be some other _where_ and some other _when_, preferably one in which she's not living through the zombie apocalypse and maybe hasn't even heard of Durant, Wyoming, let alone Walt Longmire. She's tired of the dull ache under her ribs that no painkillers can touch. She's tired of losing.

"It's a big risk, being on your own."

"It's a big risk being alive."

"Right," he says faintly.

Conversation over.

Silence blankets them in the early morning dark. It seeps into the cracks and the spaces where their friendship used to be, hardening into something solid and impassable as they sit, unspeaking, and wait for the sun to rise.

. . .

* * *

_Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has today announced the closing of Canada's border with the United States. A forty-eight hour amnesty for Canadian passport holders and those with dual-citizenship is now in effect._

* * *

. . .

Life seemed to be collapsing in on itself in slow motion as the rest of the world withdrew. Vic wondered if this was how the passengers left on the Titanic had felt with the ship sinking an inch at a time and all the lifeboats gone.

Knowing their certain future must have made some of them jump into the freezing water just to have it be on their own terms, to get out in front of the creeping terror and reclaim its power for themselves. Others would have held on stubbornly to the last scraps of wood and forced the ocean to work for the prize of their lives.

Those few in the lifeboats must have thought they were lucky at the time. How much worse for them was it to have the illusion of safety ripped away when they finally understood they'd only been delaying the inevitable with a few hours of false hope?

"Not with a bang but a whimper," Walt said out of nowhere, startling Vic from her thoughts.

It was late and they were still at the office. There just didn't seem to be much reason to go home these days. With the situation worsening in Durant, it made sense for one of them to be on hand at all times. There were still only three of them to police the whole county since Walt had sent Eamonn packing. It wasn't a subject they ever discussed, but Vic wondered if he regretted it now.

She looked up at where he stood by the window staring out into the darkness. His faint reflection appeared ghostly in the glass. The phrase he'd quoted was familiar but she couldn't place it. "What's that from?"

"_The Hollow Men,_" he replied. "T.S. Eliot. It's the final line of the poem."

"I think I read that in high school."

"This is the way the world ends," Walt said tonelessly. "Not with a bang but a whimper."

"Cheery."

Vic inserted a heavy dose of sarcasm into her voice, but she couldn't shake a vague disquiet. Maybe _they_ were the ones in the lifeboats this time. They just didn't know it yet.

. . .

* * *

_At 6 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, the President of the United States declared the country to be under martial law._

* * *

. . .

There's no such thing as safety anymore.

Supply runs are always done in force. At least two people per truck — one to drive and one to keep lookout, and shoot when necessary — and at least two trucks, though it's usually more. Today they're a convoy of six vehicles: their two and four from the Rez. Each of the Rez trucks is carrying four people, so they've got a total of twenty bodies, all armed, all experienced survivors.

They're having to range farther and farther to find supplies, particularly gas. When they find somewhere to buy it, they pay; when they can't buy it, they scavenge. Plenty of abandoned vehicles still litter the highways and back roads, their tanks just waiting to be siphoned.

The populated areas are dangerous, though, and not only because of the infected. Little fiefdoms have sprung up in smaller towns. The people within them are just as likely to shoot the living as they are the almost-dead. Large cities are no better. While military deployment was widely spread when martial law began, units in outlying areas soon began to withdraw. Now places like Casper and Sheridan are heavily guarded by soldiers who prefer to communicate with machine guns instead of words.

Today the convoy's goals are gas and medical supplies, as well as whatever else they can find of use. Vic is holding out hope for some more clothes, especially underwear. Her available wardrobe has been severely depleted by apocalypse life.

She's surprised to find herself assigned to ride with Walt on this run. Since their little heart-to-heart a few nights ago, things have been more strained between them. Whenever she tries to engage with him something shuts off behind his eyes and he becomes a polite stranger. Yet she keeps catching him watching her with a blank, far away look, almost as if he's lost in thought and she just happens to be in his line of sight. Almost, but not quite. It's too precise to be mere absentmindedness.

Whatever's behind it is cryptic and she's long given up the effort of translating him.

They arrive at the rendezvous point to find the Rez crowd already there. Vic watches Walt and Henry greet each other and can't help but smile. Henry's choice to move back to the Rez instead of to the cabin with them had been hard on Walt. Sometimes she thinks about how things might've been different with Henry around. His kindness, his humor, and his ability to pull Walt's head out of his own ass at times would've more than made up for the space that one more person would've taken up in the tiny place. Plus he can cook.

But the casino had been hit hard in the beginning, and the damage was already done by the time Nighthorse closed it down. All those people crammed into a building with a central ventilation system — it had only taken one infected holing up in his room and then popping to set most of the guests and employees toppling like dominoes. The Rez had been devastated, with at least half of its population infected and dying within a week of the first symptoms showing. It had taken a hell lot of guts for Henry to wade into that knowingly and Vic can only admire him for it.

After a few minutes she sees Walt's head turn towards the Bronco as if he's just noticed she's not with him. He walks back and leans against the passenger door. She's got the window rolled down to catch the breeze, although it's a little too warm for comfort with the sun heating up the big metal box of a truck. Still, it's better than feeling like she's suffocating.

"You coming?" he asks.

Usually, Vic would be up at the front with him, Mathias, and Henry, weighing in on the day's route and how to divide the group strategically, but today she just doesn't care one way or the other. It's always the same and she's tired.

"Think I'll sit this one out."

Walt considers her for a few moments before he says, "You feeling okay?"

"Yep."

He taps his finger on the door twice, eyes never leaving her face. "Okay," he says finally.

She watches him walk back to Henry, who turns and offers her a brief wave. He looks leaner now, his strong features appearing more honed even at this distance, but his smile is as warm as ever. She raises her hand out the window in return, then he and Walt move off to confer with the others, disappearing behind someone else's truck.

With nothing else to do, Vic looks around at the sparse and scrubby sage, the dirt drifting up in puffs of wind, the wear on the trucks and the clothes and the people. Everything feels just a bit unreal this morning, like she's viewing the world through a heat shimmer off of hot asphalt. She thinks of all of them trying so hard to survive, every day, and can't remember why. What's the point? It doesn't really seem to matter much if she dies today or next week or twenty years from now. They're all just meaningless days piling on top of each other like photocopies. Watery ink on thin paper that will yellow in the sun, flutter and tear in the breeze, and turn to pulp in the rain. A lot of wasted effort.

Her friends would probably miss her for a while, she supposes. It's not as if she believes they're heartless. But Vic's come to understand that she's nobody special to anyone anymore. Her family is dead; her husband is gone; and the people around her have their own bonds that she's not a part of. It isn't that she begrudges any of them what they have. She's glad that Walt and Cady have patched things up, that Walt and Henry are still so close, that Lucian and Cady and Walt are their own little family.

It's only that seeing them together creates a wistful kind of pain inside her. Selfish as it might be, Vic wishes there was someone left alive for her, too. The objective truth, though, is that as things stand, if there comes a time when something's got to give, hers is the absence that will create the smallest hole in their communal life.

It's not as though she has no options. She can walk away or she can eat her gun or she can go hang out with a zombie until it pops and then take a deep breath.

So, yeah, she's got options.

It's just that she'd thought—_hoped_—for a while that Walt might—

Well.

Whatever his issue had been with Eamonn, it hadn't been about her. The last couple of months have made that abundantly clear.

A gust of wind whips a handful of dirt at her face, the grit stinging her eyes despite her sunglasses. She's glad she's already wearing her face mask so at least she's not choking. What they need is a good storm: a downpour to soak the earth, with jagged streaks of lightning, long rolls of thunder, and the scent of ozone in the air. Something loud and fierce and invigorating.

But the sky is clear, without even a wisp of cloud, and its flat blue feels like dead weight pushing her down. Vic closes her eyes against the piercing sunshine and waits for the order to move out.

. . .

* * *

_Fourteen people have died overnight attempting to cross the border into Mexico. A statement was issued by the Mexican government expressing regret for the loss of life but reiterating its pledge to maintain the safety of its citizens. The deaths bring the border toll to just under one thousand people killed since its closure. Amnesty International and other human rights groups have denounced the use of lethal force to deter illegal immigration and are pressuring Mexico to adopt capture and quarantine measures instead._

* * *

. . .

On Vic's birthday, Ruby bought her pancakes from the Busy Bee for breakfast, Ferg gave her a card with an IOU for a week's worth of paperwork, and Walt shocked the hell out of her altogether.

He called her into his office and there on his desk sat a mason jar holding six fat, pink peonies.

"Happy birthday, Vic."

She gaped at him. "They're for me?"

He nodded.

Heat rose into her face. They'd never done gifts before, not even the little, often silly, kinds of things she, Ferg, and Ruby all gave each other. Vic hadn't even realized Walt paid enough attention to remember when her birthday was.

"Thank you," she managed to say, hoping she didn't sound quite as incredulous as she felt.

He ducked his head for a second and then gave her a nod. "You're welcome."

"Where did you get them? _How_ did you get them?"

"I might know a guy who knows a guy."

"Would one of those guys' names happen to be Omar?"

"Maybe," he said with a grin. Then, more hesitantly, "Peonies, right? Those are your favorites?"

Vic glanced from him to the flowers and back again in astonishment. Even Sean had never been able to remember what flowers she liked. "How did you know?"

"Uh, I guess you must've mentioned it." Walt shrugged.

Filled with a warm glow of delight, she reached out and touched one of the round heads, stroking the velvety petals. "They're beautiful."

"Yeah," came a quiet echo.

She glanced up, smiling, and found his eyes on her, not the flowers. Her breath caught and for the longest moment, against all reason, she could have sworn that time really did stand still.

...

The flowers sat on the corner of her desk by the window. Whenever she looked over and saw them her mouth curved up in a silly grin.

"You're such a girl," Ferg teased.

Vic retaliated by throwing a pencil at him.

Not hard, though.

Walt bought them all lunch and they sat in the outer office just eating and talking. It was casual and comfortable and the first time she could remember being happy in months. Even the fact that she hadn't heard from any of her family yet couldn't spoil her good mood.

When her phone rang, she answered it laughing.

"Vic, it's your father."

_Odd_, she thought absently, even as she said, "Hi, Dad." It was usually her mother who made the birthday calls.

"I have some bad news," he began and her laughter dried up.

All she could hear was the roaring in her ears.

She bent double in her chair, head on her knees, breathing too fast, waiting for it to be over. When it was, she gripped the edge of her desk and stood up.

"Vic, sweetie, are you all right?"

That was Ruby's voice coming at her from the other end of a long tunnel.

"I need a minute," she mumbled and walked down the hall to the Reading Room without seeing a thing. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, staring straight ahead at the shelves full of the station's supplies. Spare uniform shirts, blankets, rolls of toilet paper, coffee filters, stationery. The little room was stuffed with extras of everything.

Her head and her heart were empty.

She didn't know how long she'd been in there when somebody knocked.

"Can I come in?"

Walt's voice this time.

She moved away from the door to let it open. Once inside he seemed to fill all the available space around her, so very solid and alive. Vic found herself concentrating on the button of his shirt that was right at her eye level. It was a milky white plastic, nothing special, standard size, probably the exact same kind as the ones she'd worn through all her years of white Catholic school uniform shirts. That seemed important right now.

"What happened?" Walt asked.

"My brother," she said, feeling far removed. "Michael, he... He's dead."

"Vic, I'm so sorry."

"He was infected and he shot himself. He didn't want to hurt anybody." Her voice sounded flat and tinny in her ears. "My parents didn't even get to see him one last time. The body was taken for immediate cremation."

"It's a terrible thing to outlive your children," Walt said softly.

Dazed, she met his eyes. "I should be doing something. I know that, but I don't... I have no idea..."

"You don't have to do anything."

His hand stretched large and warm around her arm, thumb resting just below the sheriff's department patch. Their seven-pointed star. Est 1896.

"Shouldn't I feel more?" she asked him. "Shouldn't I feel _something_?"

"It can take a while to sink in. Give yourself some time."

Her eyes couldn't seem to settle on one spot anymore; they flitted around like restless birds. "Do you believe in heaven and hell?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I'd like to think there's something more after we die, but what that is..."

"Catholics believe, or at least they're supposed to. And suicide is a mortal sin, a one-way ticket to hell. I'm supposed to believe that my brother is in hell now because he killed himself, but it doesn't seem right. Mike sacrificed himself to save people. God wouldn't really punish him for that, would he?"

"No," Walt said, catching her eyes with his and holding them still. "I don't think he would."

Somehow, in spite of everything, it reassured her.

"I'd tell you to take the week and go home, but..."

"But non-essential travel is restricted." She gave him a half smile. "Yeah."

He moved closer so there was almost no space between them. When he spoke again his voice was low and resonant with something she'd never heard before. "If you want to go home to be with your family, Vic, you tell me, and we will find a way to get you there."

She looked at him and thought about her family, none of whom she'd seen since she moved to Wyoming, and most of whom she hardly spoke to. Her other brothers, her parents, cousins, aunts, uncles. They were all packed into one distant city and all likely, very likely, almost certainly, going to die. The knowledge filled her with a muted sadness, like the memory of pain rather than the pain itself. Then she thought about pancakes and IOUs, six pink peonies on her desk, and the warm hand that held her now.

She looked into Walt's eyes and thought of leaving here, leaving _him_, and the pain was so sharp it stole her breath.

Slowly, Vic shook her head. "This is my home now."

.

[TBC]


	3. Chapter 3

. . .

* * *

_The movement of essential medical supplies across the United States has been seriously compromised since the institution of martial law, critics say. An anonymous source at the American Red Cross has told the BBC that U.S. Army road blocks are preventing the timely delivery of vital medicines, blood, and blood products. "We're losing as many people to treatable illnesses and injuries now as we are to the parasite," she said. "The supplies we do receive are insufficient and they're delayed for so long that often we can't use them. Some days we literally have to cut up bed sheets and boil them for bandages because we can't even get enough sterile gauze to dress wounds. We know the stuff is out there, so where's it going? Probably into someone's pockets." _

_The Army Office of Public Relations has declined to comment on the allegations._

* * *

. . .

Zombies don't have enough brain matter left for anything as sophisticated as planning, but they do display a tendency towards pack behavior — a kind of herding instinct — when they end up in groups. On one hand it makes them more dangerous; on the other they're easy to pick off when they congregate together so helpfully.

What comes at the Bronco on the return trip is less an ambush than a slow shamble. Since she and Walt are in the rear vehicle, it's enough to cut them off from the rest of the convoy. He rolls to a sideways stop about fifty feet from the clump shuffling onto the road and Vic radios the lead car to tell them what's going on.

They climb out of the truck. The smell is terrible even from this far away.

Vic checks her weapon and spare clips. She adjusts the cap that's covering her hair, and makes sure her pants are tucked into her boots and her long sleeves are tucked into her gloves. The fungal spores can attach to hair and fibers, so they've learned to cover as much of themselves as possible and then burn everything once they're home. In the colder months getting all suited up wasn't a problem, but in the warmth of late spring she's sweating inside her layers.

Summer is going to be a bitch.

Walt climbs into the bed of the Bronco and extends a hand to haul her up with him. Then they wait.

Vic counts twenty-three of them in varying stages of infection; some appear almost normal, others are so mangled they barely look human. One guy has part of his femur sticking out of his thigh, there's a woman with half her face ripped off, and then another who's carrying what looks to be a dead baby. At least, Vic hopes the baby's dead.

They've pretty much got this down to an art form now, which is important because their ammo isn't unlimited. They know how close to let the zombies come before they start shooting, and how far away to keep them in case they pop. The best survival tactics are all about maintaining distance.

"Ready?" Walt says when it's time.

"Let's do it."

It's a simple, methodical process of shooting each and every one of the stinking things in the head.

They're down to only a handful when she catches a movement out of the corner of her eye, whips her head around, and sees one of the infected trying to climb over the tailgate. The motherfucker must have crawled along the grass at the side of the road while both of them were busy with the crowd ahead.

And now it's closing in on Walt.

She sees it all in an instant: the distance, the trajectory, the blood leaking out of its eyes like tears. _Too close, too close, too close,_ pounds her heart. Shoot it now and it might pop. If it pops they're both dead. Walt's dead.

There's really no decision to be made.

Two steps and she kicks the thing in the face until it falls. She jumps down to the road with it. It's rolled over onto its stomach, trying to push itself back up. She kicks it in the ribs and then the kidneys. Zombies don't feel pain — the fungus eats it out of them — but the same injuries incapacitate their bodies as the living's. She grabs the back of the thing's shirt in a double-handed grip and hauls it as fast as she can away from the Bronco.

Walt is yelling something but the drum of her pulse and the rasp of her breath drown him out. She has to get it away from him; that's all that matters. He has to be safe.

She makes it as far as the wire fence of a paddock before letting go of the thing. For a moment it's upright, but then it pinwheels wildly, falling, and she gives it a roundhouse kick to put it down. Something cracks as it lands and it lies there, convulsing a few times, neck at an odd angle. Then it blinks and something snaps in her head. She starts kicking it, stomping on its stupid, useless face until the skull gives way underneath her boot with a sickening noise and she's standing in the wet, mushy mess of what used to be a person.

And through all of it, neither of them make a sound.

Shaking, Vic jerks her foot away, but bits of scalp and brain are stuck to the sole. She makes it three stumbling steps with just barely enough time to push her mask aside before she's heaving her guts out in the dirt.

It takes a few seconds to catch her breath before she can spit and wipe her mouth. When she turns, Walt is standing in the middle of the road, staring hard at her.

Vic resettles her mask and walks over to pick up her gun, with no memory of having dropped it. "Missed one," is all she says.

He strides towards her, danger in every line of that big body, getting right in her face and looming. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I don't know, Walt. Saving your ass?"

They're both breathing heavily and she can smell her own vomit inside her mask. All she can see of him is his eyes, two wild blue flames that burn. It's a stand-off she has no intention of breaking first.

The radio in the Bronco crackles to life. Henry's calling to check in.

She brushes past him and heads back to the truck to give him their ETA. It's a few minutes before Walt joins her, slamming the door shut once he's inside. He doesn't say anything else, just starts the engine and swings them around so they're pointed towards home.

Like its namesake, the Bronco bucks as it rolls over the littered bodies.

Once they're moving smoothly again, Vic leans forward and examines the mess on her boots. "Probably going to have to burn these. Shit, I really liked them, too."

No response.

The silent treatment doesn't make much of a noticeable difference in Walt's conversation habits, given how little he talks to her these days. Even so, it pisses her off that he's acting like she's done something wrong.

Purposefully cheerful, she says, "But, hey, at least we know that stomping their heads in stops them from popping, right?"

Walt's head whips to face her briefly before turning back to the road. "Why is everything a joke to you?"

The animosity in his voice shocks her.

"What am I supposed to do, cry about it?" she demands. "I don't know what the fuck you're so angry about. I put the thing down. I'm fine. You're fine. What's the problem?"

"It was sheer luck you weren't infected! You took an unnecessary risk, going off on your own like that! It was completely irresponsible!"

"Irresponsible? Jesus, Walt, do you hear yourself? Would it have been more _responsible_ if I let it get to you? Would it have been more _responsible_ when I ended up having to shoot you too?"

To her embarrassment her voice breaks. She clamps her mouth shut.

Walt takes in a deep breath and sighs it out slowly.

"I just meant that you shouldn't be so cavalier about your own safety, Vic," he says in a more controlled voice. "We're supposed to be a team. We're supposed to watch each other's backs."

"That _was_ me watching your back. But I guess you were too busy being self-righteous to notice."

Silence.

Vic leans her head back and closes her eyes. _This is it,_ she tells herself. This is where the bitterness and the hurt have to end because she just can't take any more.

"It doesn't matter," she says aloud. "I'll be leaving in a few weeks."

Her eyes fly open as Walt stomps on the brakes and they skid to a shuddering halt.

"What?"

She clears her throat, can't look at him. "I think it'll be better for everybody. More space, less tension, you know?"

"Vic, you can't... It's too dangerous out there."

"It's dangerous everywhere, Walt."

"We need you here."

_We,_ she thinks sadly. Plural not singular. "You don't need me."

"Vic," he says again, as if her name itself is a reason, as if it means anything at all.

Her heart's made up of sharp edges, cutting her insides bloody. She can feel the pressure of Walt's gaze but stares resolutely out the window. Having to look at him might make her falter and she can't afford that weakness now.

The best survival tactics are about maintaining distance.

For long minutes they sit there cocooned by the rumble of the idling engine. Vic fights the irrational urge to make a break for it, just fling open her door and take off. But it would be suicide and she isn't that far gone yet. So she endures.

At last, almost in slow motion, Walt shifts his foot from brake to accelerator and they start forward again.

She keeps her eyes trained on the horizon until it begins to shimmer and blur.

. . .

* * *

_In financial news, the USDX fell to its lowest point in history yesterday at 42.317 due to continuing hyperinflation. International markets remained stable overnight, with the pound sterling rising slightly in response to the fall of the greenback._

* * *

. . .

Another night, another dream she woke from gasping for air. Vic opened her eyes to the soft yellow glow of the streetlights shining through the windows of Walt's office. After almost two weeks of living here, the bulky shapes and shadows in the darkened room had become comforting and familiar rather than threatening.

She reached out a hand from underneath the scratchy station blanket and lay it flat against the smooth texture of the floor. The cool wood grew warm beneath the heat of her palm.

On the couch across from her Walt was asleep. Light filtered down from above him to catch in strands of his hair and the silver studs on his shirt. Mixed in with the shadows, it had a rippling effect, as though she was seeing him through a film of moving water, like the flickering scales of a fish.

Vic's racing heart began to calm as she anchored herself to his presence, his breathing, slowing hers in time. There was an intimacy in linking her breath with his that felt intensely private, as though the air passed like secrets between their lungs. For a while it was enough to lie there, wrapped up in the darkness, alive with him.

When his quiet voice drifted to her it seemed almost an extension of the night. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Her own voice was husky with sleep; she cleared her throat. "Did I wake you?"

"No. I wasn't sleeping."

A flutter of embarrassment ran through her at the idea of being caught, of him being aware that she— _What?_ she asked herself. It wasn't as if she was doing something illicit. _Get a grip._

"We won't be able to stay here much longer," Walt said after a minute or two. It sounded like a continuation of a conversation he'd been having with himself.

"No," she agreed.

There were six of them staying here now, with no shower and no kitchen, no privacy. As the situation outside their doors continued to deteriorate they were all going to need to move somewhere more viable as a living space. Vic just didn't know where that would be for her. It wasn't as though she had anywhere to go.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Walt said, "You should come stay at the cabin. I know it'll be cramped with four of us, but we'll work it out. Unless you, uh..." He faltered for a moment. "...you had somewhere else in mind."

The end of the sentence lilted up like a question and she wondered exactly where he imagined the 'somewhere else' might be. "There's nowhere else."

"Okay. Okay," he repeated more softly, as though to himself.

The truth was that she would've accepted his invitation even if she'd had an alternative. Knowing that he wanted her with him — with _them_, she corrected herself mentally — made her happier than it probably should have under the circumstances.

The last time she'd stayed at his place, Ed had been looming in every shadow. Then in walked Lizzie and her accusations. At the time, Vic had been mortified and angry, not so much at Lizzie as at Walt, for the way he'd slunk back into his room without a word in the aftermath. He'd probably been embarrassed, she'd realized later, but in the moment it had felt like he'd abandoned her.

Now her eyes sought him out, though there wasn't much she could see. Some details of that evening were etched into her memory, like the image of him half-naked and wet from the shower. And the idea that he was saving a piece of his heart for her. Vic had clung to that hope shamefully for far too long. It had been only recently, really since her birthday, that she'd allowed her hope to rise a little again.

Maybe it was foolish, but nobody had ever accused her of being wise. Here they were, at what felt like the end of everything; she didn't see that she had much left to lose.

"Are you scared?" she asked Walt quietly.

He let out a soft sound; it could've been a laugh or a sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm scared."

For no reason she could define, the honest admission made her feel better. "Me too."

"Vic..."

He stalled out the way he did sometimes and she waited, waited. She'd never been good at patience, though, and something in his tone had nerves jumping in her stomach.

"What is it?"

"If something happens to me... If I get infected..."

Her heart slammed hard, like it was trying to break out of her ribs. She had a violent and almost irresistible urge to get up and run. She wanted to start screaming as loud as she could to stop herself from hearing the words she knew he was going to say.

"I need to know that I won't hurt anybody. Promise me you'll end it before that happens if I can't do it myself."

She saw him crumpled on the ground, saw the deceptively small bullet hole that belied the ruined mess of the back of his skull, saw blood leaking out in a halo around him as his bright blue eyes sightlessly reflected the sky.

_I can't please don't ask me that I can't I can't oh god please_

Those few seconds in Chance Gilbert's bunker expanded out into the rest of her life — that's what it would be. The black bag would keep dropping over and over and this time she'd know the bullet was hers.

Vic wanted to throw up. Walt was asking her to take the worst, most unbearable thing she could imagine and _make it happen._ She would've rather shoved the muzzle of her Glock into her own mouth and pulled the trigger than have to live one second in a world where that was real.

"Please, Vic." His voice was raw.

He could probably hear her ragged breathing, the way it shuddered into her lungs and backed up because she couldn't let it out. _Why me?_ she wanted to ask like a child. But of course it had to be her. Salvation came in many forms and hadn't she already proven the lengths she'd go to in order to save him?

On a different sleepless night she'd flipped through some of the books on his shelf. The end of a poem came back to her now like the burning hand of fate. _If the ropes binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them._

A merciful death might be the only gift any of them had to give each other anymore. Mercy was an expression of love, even when it broke your own heart.

Vic closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and let all her backed up breaths go.

"I promise."

. . .

* * *

_A new report released jointly by the World Health Organisation, the International Red Cross, and Médecins Sans Frontières, condemns the United States government and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for what it characterizes as a catastrophic mishandling of the current _P. coccophagus _pandemic. According to the report, up to 85% of the country's doctors, nurses, and other health workers were killed in the initial spread of infection due to inadequately disseminated information and poorly defined quarantine procedures. With many American cities now suffering from epidemics of waterborne and foodborne illnesses such as cholera, Hepatitis A, and typhoid, the WHO has called upon the U.S. military leadership to allow civilian access to armed forces hospitals and medical personnel._

* * *

. . .

Vic's just finishing cleaning up after breakfast when she hears raised voices outside. They're too far away to distinguish individual words but the volume and tone carry a clear enough message. It's not long before the screen door slaps as Cady stalks inside. She's already dressed for patrol, completely covered from the neck down, with her face mask shoved up like a bizarre version of a headband.

"God, Dad has been in a foul mood the last few days." She yanks open the fridge and grabs two bottles of water. "Did you guys have a fight or something? That always makes him extra surly."

Vic shakes the towel in her hand and pays close attention to making sure it hangs perfectly straight over the rack. She feels caught out, exposed, and completely unprepared. Walt had asked her not to announce her plans to leave to the others just yet, but she hadn't thought about needing a cover story.

"How can you tell?" she asks dryly, hoping misdirection will be enough to keep her from an outright lie. "I thought that was just his SOP."

Cady gives her a curious look. "Maybe before everything with Barlow, but since the truth about Mom's murder came out I think he's seemed more like his old self." There's a fond little smile around her mouth that speaks to good memories. With a sigh, she slips the bottles of water into a small cooler bag. "But just now I swear he was about to hit Lucian."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. They were talking and I heard Lucian say 'flesh stays no farther reason, but rising at thy name.'"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I have no idea. You know how he's always quoting things. I tried to talk to Dad but he just told me to leave it alone and stormed off. When I asked Lucian, he laughed and told me to ask Dad." Cady hesitates for a moment, then lowers her voice. "Vic, do you think Dad could be infected?"

"No," she says emphatically and Cady visibly relaxes. "It's probably just the heat getting to him."

A front of hot, dry air from the southwest had moved in the day after the supply run and they've all been more on edge in the stifling heat. At night, the atmosphere in the cabin rustles like dry wild grass just waiting for the slightest spark to ignite it.

"Could you try talking to him?" Cady asks. "He always listens to you more than anybody else."

The statement is so far from the truth that Vic has the bitter urge to laugh, but there's no way to explain just how wrong it is without divulging details too personal to reveal, especially to Walt's daughter. She stalls instead. "You know your dad. If you try to get him to talk before he's ready, he'll just dig in harder."

"True."

"At least you're out on patrol with Lucian today. Nothing but zombies and the threat of deadly peril for miles."

"Oh, yeah. There's a silver lining," Cady returns with an eye-roll, but she's smiling.

A horn blares obnoxiously for a few seconds out front. Then a second time, for a little longer.

"Somebody's in a hurry," Vic says with a smirk.

Cady just shakes her head. "I better go before Dad decides to shoot him. See you tonight."

"Good luck."

"You, too."

_Yeah,_ Vic thinks as she watches Lucian and Cady pull away. _I'll need it._

...

Despite their fractured state, she and Walt still work well together, falling naturally into easy rhythms and silent, almost unconscious communication. Under the mid-morning sun, they're working on the foundation for the extension they're building onto the cabin. Vic's skills tend to the more mechanical: things made of metal, with engines. She's got zero experience with carpentry, and what she knows about construction mostly involves concrete and rebar. Walt's been a good teacher, though — clear and concise, patient — and she's learned a hell of a lot since they started the process in spring.

Her newly gained knowledge includes the fact that pouring concrete over a rocky surface weakens it and will ultimately cause it to crack. As nature hasn't seen fit to provide them with nice smooth dirt, somebody gets the really fucking boring job of pulling the rocks out of the ground. It's what she's been doing for the last hour, since her arms started going numb from digging. The trenches they've dug for the foundation logs aren't quite wide enough for her to stand in comfortably, so she either has to squat or kneel beside them. Her back and leg muscles are already screaming.

When her calves cramp up for the second time, Vic stands and stretches them out, then heads to the cooler for some water. She strips off her dirty gloves and lets them drop to the grass before plucking up a bottle and rolling the cold, wet surface over her face and neck. There's not much she wouldn't give for a pool to jump into right about now.

Walt apparently has the same idea about taking a break because he throws down his shovel and walks over for his own bottle of water.

The couple of hours of work they've put in haven't done anything to improve his mood as far as Vic can tell. He's been digging like he's exacting revenge from the ground for some kind of offense. Twice now she's stood up to stretch and found him staring at her with his jaw clenched. She wishes he'd just yell about whatever it is and get it over with. Even having him throw a punch at her would be better than this. She knows how to handle herself in that kind of fight, knows how to keep score. These thunderous silences and cutting looks are moves she can't counter or block.

He slaps his gloves down, then wrestles with the cooler before slamming it shut. He stands slightly apart from her, his body held too stiffly to be casual. There's nothing restful about Walt even at rest anymore; he just seems to stretch more and more taut.

Out of the corner of her eye Vic watches him run the bottle of water over his skin before taking a drink. The condensation mingles with his sweat and she feels a familiar tug of desire. Even with the dry air wicking away most of the moisture, they're both well and truly sweaty. There are wet patches all over his t-shirt and little rivulets along his neck. A fine dusting of dirt hangs suspended in the hair on his arms. She wants to lick him, let the flavor of his salt burst on her tongue, and hates that she still finds him so incredibly attractive even when he's being such an asshole.

Resolutely, she turns her head away and notices the reddening skin on her shoulder. She's forgotten to put on sunblock again. "Shit," she mutters and rummages through her pile in the grass to find the bottle.

There's not much left. She upends it and whacks it against her palm a few times before flipping the cap and squeezing. It emits a noise that would make any twelve-year-old boy proud before releasing a blob of lotion into her palm. With one hand she rubs it on the opposite shoulder; with the other she holds the bottle up to her eye and peers in, trying to gauge how much is actually there.

Vic manages to coax out enough for her other shoulder and spreads it on. With what's left on her hand she rubs at her nose and cheeks in the probably-vain hope she won't burn and peel there. Flipping the cap back on the bottle, she glances up and catches Walt glaring at her shoulder as though it, like the ground, has offended him somehow.

"If I don't find some more of this stuff soon I'm going to turn into a lobster," she says lightly, trying to ease a little of the tension.

"Maybe you'll put some clothes on, then," he says in a tight voice, his gaze settling somewhere behind her.

Completely taken aback, she stares at him for a few seconds before saying, "Excuse me?"

"If you weren't always walking around half undressed, you wouldn't have to worry about getting sunburned in the first place."

It's a stinging slap at her limited wardrobe. A while ago she'd had to start resorting to her bikini bottoms as underwear and the tops as bras. Since the weather's heated up, on days when she's not out patrolling she wears the tops as outerwear and adds shorts over the bottoms. It's not like she's indecent.

"Half undressed?" Vic tries to laugh but doesn't quite manage it. "Jesus, you make it sound like I'm wearing nothing but pasties and a g-string."

Walt doesn't bother to respond. His expression hard and set, he turns to ram his water bottle roughly back into the cooler.

It must catch on something below it because the cap sits up above the lip. Vic's sure he can see that but he just slaps the lid down, then lets out a frustrated grunt when it rebounds. He pushes but it won't latch, won't lie flat, so he keeps pushing. The muscles in his arms and across his back strain as he tries to force the cooler shut.

If he were anyone else, she'd think it was some kind of macho display, but Walt really doesn't do that sort of thing. He certainly wouldn't be doing it for her benefit now. Even so, she barely recognizes the man in front of her who's struggling so hard for no reason. Why the hell doesn't he just move the fucking bottle?

Finally, the plastic concedes defeat and crumples with a sharp crackle. The lid latches with a solid click.

For a few beats, Walt stands there, panting from his efforts, then he shoves the cooler with enough force that it rolls over a full turn backwards and ends up on its side. Vic is stunned by the sudden violence. All this because of a bathing suit?

"Wow. Okay." Baffled hurt turns her voice high and airy. "I'm sorry my outfit offends you so much, but in case you haven't noticed, it's summer. It's hot."

"We all know it's hot, Vic. We're all feeling it, but we still manage to dress properly."

Hip cocked, she stares him down as a maelstrom of scorched earth, city-razing fury explodes like a cherry bomb inside her. It feels good, feels familiar, this old friend. It's who she is, after all: The Holy Terror. Gone AWOL for a while, but now she's back.

"You know, Walt, maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not dressed _properly_, but for your information almost all the clothes I used to own are now ashes, and your daughter and I are not the same size. So unless you've got a new, more _proper_ wardrobe for me just lying around, you'd better pull out whatever it is that's crawled up your ass and stop being such a fucking dick about it."

With that she throws the bottle of sunblock to the ground and stalks back towards the cabin. If she has to simmer with rage, at least she can do it in the shade. What she doesn't count on is him coming after her, grabbing her arm, and spinning her around.

"I wouldn't have to be a fucking dick about it if just for once you'd show some consideration for anyone but yourself! Did you ever think that maybe no one wants to see you like this all the time?"

The way he rakes his eyes up and down her body makes it seem disgusting, makes _her_ seem disgusting.

It's a sucker punch in the gut. The sun pounds down on her head like a white spotlight and she can't get enough air. She smells fresh dirt and his sweat, feels the heat coming off him, the hair on his arm, the strength of his grip. She wants to go home, or away, or just be somewhere other than here with this man who seems to hate her.

"I'm sorry it's such a punishment to have to look at me," Vic says acidly. "But don't worry. You won't have to do it for too much longer."

She tries to yank her arm free from his grip, using her anger to mask how close to crying she is. But he just hauls her in with both hands until they're right up in each other's faces. His is stripped of every scrap of softness it's ever had. He's staring at her with a hard, almost vicious intensity, like he really wants to hurt her.

"You never think about what anyone else wants, Vic. You never think about how anyone else feels."

"Fuck you, you sanctimonious son of a bitch," she grinds out, low and dangerous. "Let me go!"

"I can't," he says bleakly.

His mouth slams down on hers.

.

[TBC]

. . .

.

**notes:** "if the ropes / binding your soul are your own wrists, I will cut them." is from the poem 'the promise' by sharon olds. "flesh stays no farther reason, / But rising at thy name" is from shakespeare's sonnet 151; if you're not familiar with the poem, it's about boners. thanks to ziparumpazoo for encouragement and wise counsel.


	4. Chapter 4

. . .

* * *

_Two 16 year-old girls might be doing more to save American lives than the combined governments of the world. The high school students, who became friends online several years ago but have never met, together designed and developed an app created as a resource for those living in the pandemic-ravaged United States. Miho Kurosawa (Japan) and Essie Ribeiro (Brazil) were inspired by the stories of survivors posted on social media. "We wanted to find a way to help people and we both had already done some programming before," said Kurosawa in an interview with Al Jazeera. "We decided to work together to create something that people could use to help each other."_

_Once the word was out about what the two were doing, they were overwhelmed with offers of support. "It was amazing," said Ribeiro. "We started getting all these messages from people who wanted to donate money or who offered us mentoring on the technical side. At first we didn't take it seriously because, come on, we're high school students writing code in our spare time. Who's going to care about that?"_

_Thousands of people, it turns out. And the results have been life-changing. Forty-eight hours after its release, the Zombie Finder app ranks as the #1 download at both Google Play and the App Store. The reviews are filled with praise and gratitude, with one user saying simply, "This app saved my life today." Other reviewers have recommended Kurosawa and Ribeiro for a variety of awards and prizes, including the Nobel Peace Prize._

_"It's gotten to the point that it's hard for us to read the reviews because what people are going through is so horrible," said Kurosawa. "I cry when I read them," said Ribeiro. "It feels like our app is such a little thing and there's so much more that needs to be done to help all those people. I wish we could fix it all."_

_Zombie Finder is available as a free download to users in the United States. An ad-supported version is available in other regions._

* * *

. . .

Like so many other things she'd once taken for granted, privacy was now a luxury of the past. Vic was thinking longingly of the days when she could walk around her house completely naked if she wanted to, and sometimes did. But living in a one-bedroom cabin with her boss, his daughter, and a horny old eccentric meant she had no space of her own and the only door she could shut herself behind belonged to the bathroom.

The bathroom where she stood now, just out of the shower and with nothing but a towel to wear because she'd forgotten to bring a change of clothes with her. Again.

She sighed in irritation.

Securing her towel in one hand, Vic opened the door with the other, only to find herself nearly colliding with Walt. She jerked back abruptly, lost her balance, and would have gone down if she hadn't still been hanging on to the doorknob. Walt grabbed for her but his hands skidded over her wet skin before catching hold. They ended up a muddle of too many tangled parts for the several seconds it took to set her upright and extricate themselves from one another.

"That was graceful," she said with a laugh, pushing back her wet hair and trying to ignore the electric echoes of his touch running along her arms.

He didn't laugh or even smile, just stood there looking down at her with an unreadable expression. Embarrassment sent heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. His oppressive silence was like judgement; it made her feel small and guilty for no reason she could understand. It made her feel naked in a way that had nothing to do with what she wasn't wearing.

"I, uh, forgot my clothes." She cleared her throat and edged past him. "I'll just—"

Nerves made her fumble in her one-handed quest for something to put on, painfully aware of Walt's presence like a hostile shadow at her back.

She heard the sound of a drawer being opened and closed, felt the charged air as he walked past her and out the door. The tension bled from the room in his wake. She sagged where she stood, her pulse pounding, and tried to work out what the hell had just happened.

...

Vic still had close to an hour left on first watch when Cady stepped outside onto the porch with a quiet greeting.

"Slow night tonight?"

"The best kind. What's up?"

"Just bored. Dad and Lucian are having a deep discussion about something in the bedroom with the door shut."

"Secret men's business," Vic offered dryly, grinning when Cady let out a muffled laugh.

From her perch on the second step, she tilted her head back up to the sky. It was shot through with thickly scattered stars that winked and glittered in the black backdrop of space. The moon hung low behind the cabin at this hour, just a thin sickle of a thing that gave off little light and somehow made the darkness seem that much darker.

Cady crossed over to slouch against the railing next to her, a slightly more solid shadow among the others. "I'm really glad you're here, you know."

Vic almost got whiplash turning her head before her stunned brain caught up with the fact that it was a useless move in the dark. "Thanks" was all she could manage in response.

"Not that I don't love Dad and Lucian, but it's nice having another woman around. I know we've disagreed about things in the past, but if you can't get along during the zombie apocalypse, when can you, right?"

Cady's tone was light but it held an unmistakable note of sincerity and Vic was surprised to discover how much she appreciated it.

"Right," she agreed. "Although generally speaking the zombie apocalypse kind of sucks."

"God, it really does."

"I'm pissed at all those movies for making it look so awesome."

"We should sue the studios for misrepresentation," Cady suggested wryly. "Get a class action going."

Laughing at the absurdity, Vic shook her head and then sighed. "Jesus, it's all so fucked up."

Somewhere nearby an owl hooted. It was a normal, commonplace sound out here at night, but everyone had learned not to take chances. They waited in wary silence, listening intently. As the minutes passed with no other disturbance, the silence eased into something more comfortable. Just two friends hanging out in the middle of the night.

An odd sort of tightness Vic hadn't known was inside her began to gently unwind. "For the record, I'm glad I'm here, too," she said, picking up the thread of their conversation.

Cady shifted her feet, her boots drawing a soft shuffle and scrape across the wooden boards. "I know it means a lot to Dad that you came with us."

A bolt of something akin to shock blazed through Vic's body like a flare of static electricity. There was a sharp flash of pain, then recoil, and then a kind of numbness. She thought of Walt disappearing before she'd finished getting dressed that afternoon and not coming back to the cabin until well after the others returned from patrol. She thought of the way he hadn't once looked at her directly all evening, the way his eyes seemed to skip right over her as if she wasn't even there.

"You think so?"

"Of course." Cady sounded genuinely puzzled. "Don't you?"

Sudden gunfire splintered the air around them, saving Vic from an answer. The night exploded in a cacophony of motion and noise. Shrieking birds took to the air in erratic flight, panicked; grass and underbrush rustled and swayed as small, scurrying bodies fled in all directions.

Vic rose to her feet and her eyes strained to pierce the darkness. Not for the first time she wished she could get her hands on a pair of night vision goggles. "Can you tell how far away that was?" she asked Cady.

"A few miles maybe. Could be farther."

"I heard three shots."

"Same."

That could mean anything: three kill shots, three shots for one kill, one or two kills or misses. The trouble could be over and done with, or it could be headed their way.

For the second time that night, they waited, tense and alert. Five minutes passed, then ten, but they heard nothing else to signify danger. Slowly, the ordinary sounds of night returned.

Letting out a deep breath, Cady said, "I'll go give Dad and Lucian the all clear."

The harsh spike and drop in adrenaline left Vic feeling jangled. With another twenty minutes to go on her watch, she paced several slow circuits around the cabin and tried to shake off the edginess. One of these days their luck would run out, but not tonight, she told herself. Not tonight.

By the time Cady came out again to relieve her, the buzz had worn off and drained the rest of her energy too.

"No offense, but I don't want to see you again for at least twelve hours," Vic said, trudging back up the steps.

"Sorry, but we're on patrol together tomorrow," came the blithe reminder.

"I hate you."

Cady just laughed. "At least you get the bed tonight."

"Right now that bed is my sole reason for living," Vic said as she headed inside.

It wasn't even much of an exaggeration. These days, getting a whole queen-sized bed with a real mattress all to herself was better than sex. Then again, it had been a while since she'd gotten laid so there was a chance she might've been wrong.

Pausing just inside the front door after shutting it, she blinked a few times to let her eyes adjust. The room came to her in snapshots: the cot next to the piano, made up for Cady tonight; the bedroom door opening onto darkness; a blanket thrown haphazardly over the back of one leather chair; the strange, rectangular moon of the white range glowing in the darkened kitchen; and the long, squat coffee table lying in front of the sofa like a hound sprawled at its master's feet.

They were the wrong feet.

Lucian should have been on the sofa tonight but there lay Walt, one arm draped over his eyes as though to block out the faint light of the lamp. Vic felt a cold sense of desolation settle around her as she looked at him. Fine tremors began to shake her muscles and she bit her lip, telling herself it was just exhaustion making her feel defeated and weak.

Quietly, she walked into the bedroom, stepping carefully around the air mattress where Lucian lay. She grabbed her nighttime kit and took it with her to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. Against it, in the dark, she slid to the floor, knees to her chest, and made herself as small as she possibly could.

No matter what Cady had said, tonight was its own proof for Vic.

Walt's feelings were as loud and as clear as the gunshots that had shattered the silence. He didn't want her here; he wouldn't even sleep in the room where she was.

For a long time Vic sat in the dark of the bathroom with her ass going numb against the tile. The altitude felt too high; the atmosphere felt too thin. That was why she couldn't seem to catch her breath, why her eyes were stinging, why her chest ached like someone had cracked her ribs.

It had nothing to do with the clotted mess of her stupid broken heart.

. . .

* * *

_The Royal Navy ship HMS Bulwark arrived this morning in New York carrying relief supplies and medical personnel from all over Europe. Temporary intake centers are being set up to determine eligibility for the limited number of refugee places being offered by the British government. To date, the U.K. is the only country to begin processing emergency immigration requests from U.S. citizens; however, other allied countries, including Australia and New Zealand, are in the final stages of negotiations. It's estimated that close to half a million Americans will be granted asylum in foreign nations by the end of the year._

* * *

. . .

Her body catches on before her brain, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue in the middle. It's less kissing than gnawing, less an embrace than a grapple, the way they're straining with each other. Vic is so fucking angry at how he's made her suffer that she wants him to feel it, wants to do some damage of her own. Grabbing at the back of his neck, she pulls on his hair and digs her nails hard into his defenseless skin, hoping to mark him, make him bleed.

Walt pushes her backwards, keeping her upright as she stumbles, and they're still biting at each other's mouths. Then there's a railing at her back, rough wood digging into her bare skin and catching at her hair, and the wall of heat that's his body pressing against her front. The solid line of his erection pushed into her belly shocks a sound out of her.

He tears his mouth from hers and moves to her throat, sucking hot kisses all over her skin. Her head's thrown back and she's panting up at the blue sky when he finally lets go of her arms to grab her ass with both hands and boost her higher. She wraps her legs around his waist without thinking, caught in the web of urgent necessity binding them. The changes bring their faces level and in an instant all the frantic motion comes crashing to a halt.

It's just her and Walt, breathing hard and clutching each other desperately.

Something shifts on his face as she watches; some hopeless, breaking thing emerges into the light. He's looking at her so openly, with so much vulnerability, that it's terrifying.

"I can't let you go, Vic," he whispers. "I can't."

Lust smooths out into tenderness at the anguish in his voice. She pulls his head down, cradling it in the crook of her neck, running her fingers through his damp hair. The world spins and she holds on to him.

"It's all right," she murmurs into his ear. "It's all right."

He's raw and wounded, clinging to her like she's his salvation. Fresh sweat rises in all the places they touch. She strokes her fingers over his bristly cheek and jaw, along his collar bone, around the ball of his shoulder, calm now after days, weeks of gnawing anxiety and confusion. At last she finally, finally understands.

It doesn't excuse him or absolve him, but she can see the raveled string Walt's tied himself up in, a Möbius strip of anger and fear. The more he'd fought it, the tighter its hold, and it's been eating him alive.

When he lets her down, Vic takes his hand and leads him up the steps to the cabin. She stops to toe off her boots and wriggle her feet out of her socks. Walt does the same. The sight of his bare toes, so small and pale, seems very intimate.

She looks up at him standing there watching her with a combination of supplication and animal wariness. He would let her hurt him now, she thinks, is maybe even expecting some kind of retribution or rejection. The idea of that much power, the depth and breadth of it, is frightening to her, too easy to abuse even by accident. That's not what she wants them to be.

She offers him her hand. Slowly, he takes it. She leads him inside and he follows in silence as she walks to the bedroom. Shuts the door.

They have time. Lucian and Cady will be out on patrol for at least a few more hours.

Walt's breathing is shallow and he still hasn't spoken, but when she reaches up to touch his face he closes his eyes and leans into her fingers as if accepting a blessing. He holds himself in a tense passivity, like a frightened animal, muscles jumping under his skin. Somehow Vic knows that it's not because he doesn't want her touch but because of how much he does. The knowledge goes deeper than conscious thought; it lives all through her body, from the tips of her fingers to the base of her spine.

She slides her palms over his chest, feeling his heat, his solid living flesh under the cotton. _You're so important to me,_ she tells him with the simple honesty of her hands. _Don't be scared._

"Lie down with me?" she asks.

He swallows hard and nods.

They settle on the middle of the bed, facing each other; Vic can see the flecks of green and yellow suspended in the blue of his eyes. Light filters gently through the room, so unlike the blinding strength of the sun outside. In here the air is warm and close but not unpleasant.

Walt appears dazed and uncertain, still with that wide-open look about him that makes her feel protective and needy at the same time. They're both sweaty and a little dirty but she's afraid that if they stop at all they'll lose this momentum, this moment. She touches the tip of one finger to the shallow indent just below his bottom lip. The skin there is soft, without stubble, and she strokes its texture in fascination. He makes a sound, a hitching breath, and then moves closer.

This time when they kiss it's tender and dreamy. They wind themselves together, intermingle, mesh. Vic curves herself against him, her thigh pushing between his, her arm exploring his back. His hand comes to rest on her hip almost hesitantly, as though afraid its full weight will do her damage.

"I won't break," she murmurs, between kisses.

His hold tightens, tightens.

Beneath them are soft cotton sheets, worn and thin from many washings, comfortable in the way of familiar things. Walt's skin feels even softer laid over the strong muscles and bones that make up his body — his body that's so familiar yet so undiscovered. She slides bold fingers underneath his t-shirt and rucks it up over her wrist, pushing it higher, as high as she can.

He sits up and strips it over his head.

It's not the first time she's seen him shirtless, but still. _Still._ Now she's allowed to look; allowed to want; allowed to touch.

Vic sits up too and flattens her palm against his chest, over the beat of his heart. She bends her head and leans into him to press her lips to his shoulder, his collar, the notch at the base of his throat. His hands rise around her, into her hair, against her spine, and she's enveloped in him. She fumbles for the ties at the back of her neck with clumsy fingers but his hand covers hers.

"Can I...?"

After so much silence, Walt's voice, low and rough, asking for this tiny privilege reaches some deep place inside her and plucks a hidden string. The sound spreads through her, thrumming beneath her skin. She manages a noise of assent and allows her hands to fall. His fingers replace hers, gently tugging at the slippery bow. She rests her head on his shoulder, overwhelmed by a sensation like vertigo, spinning and spiraling with him as the still center. When the ties slither and drop away, she shifts to offer him her back so he can unfasten the strap.

His fingers are quick and sure, unclasping the little hooks with ease. A long moment passes before he spreads the sides apart. Vic can feel his eyes on her skin, heating her up with his gaze. Then he flattens his palm at the top of her spine and passes it all the way down her back in a slow sweep that makes her shiver.

She turns to face him, peeling the top away from her breasts. His jaw works as he looks at her face and nowhere else and she's tired of waiting. Her hand on the back of his neck pulls him in until it's just mouths and skin saying everything to each other they can't manage with words. They're living in a decaying time but this feels like creation; they're making something here between them, some meaning larger than themselves.

Even with the windows open the room and their bodies are hot and their skin sticks and slides together, but Vic can't stand any space between them, can't stand not to be touching him in every possible place. They go slowly, two people walking into an unfamiliar room in the dark. They step carefully and with their hands held out, not wanting to break anything, not wanting to break themselves, but committed to the journey now, whatever the destination.

When at last she rises over him, Walt looks up at her as though she's something holy. He touches her as though she's worthy of his worship, offering himself to her. This isn't sex as she understands it, even as she takes him into her body. Her breath catches in her throat; her whole self seems suspended there in the clutch of air not coming in or going out but holding time still for one single, infinite second.

Then his eyes close and his breath goes ragged. Vic breathes out, in, takes his face with both her hands and kisses him, kisses him. The air moves through their lungs, their blood, one another; he's inside her in so many ways and she's not letting him go, not ever.

They hold still for minutes, for as long as they can, until the pressure and the ache become too much to bear. Rocking together, in this, too, they go slowly, with care. Cherished seems such an old-fashioned word but that's how she feels, how he makes her feel with his hands and his eyes and his gentle motion inside her.

_I love you,_ she tells him silently, over and over. Pleasure spins out from the center of her body, whirling like the stars overhead, until she has to close her eyes against the brightness in his, more radiant than the sun.

Their rhythm falters while she's dazed and shuddering, but he waits for her, patient and watching, always. His eyes are dark, his face pared down to the strong angles of his essential self. It's a look that could be pain but for its utter concentration, its open wonder, its heat.

She moves again and he moves with her; they are partners, accomplices, equals, and alibis. Complements even in this, their joy in one another.

When he comes, when he finally loosens his last hold on control, she kisses him with a happiness both fierce and wild; and she feels like her namesake, like Victoria, the goddess of winning in battle, of victory over death, of triumph.

.

[END]

. . .

.

**roll credits:**

the title comes from the song 'safe and sound' by taylor swift featuring the civil wars; the name p(aleoophiocordyceps) coccophagus is borrowed from an extinct parasitic fungus, of which there's been only one specimen discovered (i didn't think it would mind); large portions of this fic could not have been written without the tremendous resource that is wikipedia; special thanks to a href=" how-to-build-a-log-cabin/" title="log cabin hub" rel="nofollow"log cabin hub/a for details on how to actually build a log cabin; and, finally, a disclaimer: the depiction of real persons, companies, organisations, and other entities is entirely fictional and is not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.


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